Curtis Salgado famously inspired John Belushi’s Blues Brother persona. And my own personal wardrobe. From December 5, 1990. – JDW
The other day somebody asked me how I go about writing my column.
The hard way, I told her.
I call my girl
Tell her let’s get gone
The job description when the heat is on
Is to cruise the wide countryside
With the windows down, Awww yeah
And down the way where the road divides
There’s a place where we can hide
And we’ll sit and hold our hands
And come to understand that
Life is love and love is right.
Curtis Salgado wrote that. Anyway…..
WEDNESDAY NIGHT. I’m working the swing shift. I decided to check out Museum After Hours, the city’s densest meet-market. Professional women over thirty in silk blouses. Enough said.
Curtis Salgado is playing – along with Janice Scroggins and Lloyd (first L is silent) Jones – so you know the joint will be jammin’ and jammed. I went early just to be safe.
Sold out. To tell you the truth, I was stunned. Since when can’t you get into the Portland Art Museum whenever you want? I overheard a young man in a three-piece Glen plaid suit say, “I bought these tickets over a month ago.”
Like I am some kind of fool. I hate it when that happens.
Pouting, I strolled around downtown, looking for some action. Didn’t find it. Nothing was going on. Soon enough it was late enough to head to Day For Night. After-party with Curtis Salgado & The Stilettos.
Six dollar cover!!! Ouch.
I paid painfully and moments later found myself at a small table right next to the dance floor. And I listened to that band and watched that man wail. And it was good. I’d forgotten how special this guy is. The original blues brother.
Wallowing in a floating blues aural hypnotic state, I listened to the little voice inside. Remember, I’m on the job. The little voice, Director of Column Ideas, whispers, “Sold out. Six dollar cover. There’s something going on here. Pay attention.”
FRIDAY NIGHT. 9:30. Curtis is already SRO at Key Largo. Standing Room Only. At 9:30. Cover is but a sawbuck. Thank you, Tony D. (No relation.)
I get a bottle of non-alcoholic Sharps beer. I’m working. And sit down in the only available spot, which is the wicker love seat in the front window, under the glow of one of Rick Bradley’s aqua lamps. The bubbles are the best part.
The love seat is a good spot to watch the door for my date. Who may or may not show up. Lately, most of my dates are like that. She may or may not show up. That’s exactly what she told me.
On the bright side, I sense a direction here. I’m getting stood up by classier women than when I was younger. At least I like to think that.
And just getting one of them to give me a date seems an estimable achievement. About which poems are written.
The hard part is the asking. Every time I ask a woman out, I always think the brief conversation is going to go something like this.
Me (hopefully): I don’t suppose you could ever spare an evening in the next millennium so that I might worship in your proximity?
Her (looking as if she’d just eaten a fur-ball taco): I’d sooner die a million painful deaths and marry Jesse Helms and get my Nordstrom’s card canceled.
Me: (prayerfully): Then I suppose a weekend at the beach is out of the question.
Where was I? Working.
Anyway, this most lovely lady said she might meet me here or she might not. If that’s not an actual commitment, I don’t know what is.
Now, she’s an hour late.
I give up on her.
Not only are huge crowds flocking to pay big bucks to hear Curtis perform, they get there early. The man doesn’t even arrive on stage until eleven.
Sometimes it seems he musta been nuts to do some of the things some say he did. It’s no secret he waged a battle with the bottle.
Look at him. Listen. Clearly, it’s a battle he’s won. They say he’s taken up scuba diving.
He’s doing things differently these days.
Midnight. Working late. Still Key Largo. People in expensive clothes wait in line – outdoors in winter – just to get through the door. Once inside, they stand in line to get a drink or to visit the porcelain.
Curtis introduces the next tune, a classic. Big ovation. (Can I say that in a family newspaper?)
The dance floor looks like the inside of a Japanese commuter train, and the happy crowd is singing the chorus of “Ride, Sally, Ride.”
And the clean-shaven, long-haired shouter in black is just warmin’ up.
Curtis Salgado’s entire career – at least to this point – may have been just that. A warmup. The man is catching fire.
EVERY DAY IS A HOLIDAY is a hit, and the album should be out before the end of the year. If you want to catch Mr. Salgado live, better get there early and bring your wallet.
Of course, all this time, I was hoping he might call me. Or then again, he might not.
All this time I knew I was going to write a column about him. Regardless.
Seemed like a good idea.